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I fret over my lip. I understand what he’s feeling. I go through bouts of denial and need. It’s common, especially if you’re here for any length of time. At this point, I could write the damn book on being rejected.
Kinsey doesn’t respond right away. I don’t blame her. We both know what it means if Greystone Academy students stop trying. We go Feral. It’s like hell for sinners. It basically means the shifters in charge drop the unwanted ones off in the middle of the woods, packless. You have nothing and no one. We can’t live without our pack bonds and societal structure. Going Feral is the touch of death.
My stomach twists as I read back the text. He’s going to stop trying.
Selfishly, I wondered what that meant. Stupid hope started pouring a cement foundation inside of me—a hope I shouldn’t even be feeling.
I’ve been keeping something from her. Hell, I’ve been keeping it from everybody because it only serves as a one-way ticket to Feral, but I’m dying to discuss it. Absolutely dying. Even if they tell me I’m being crazy, which they will.
Maybe I’m hoping someone will knock some sense into me.
I don’t know what to say, Kinsey finally texts back. I’m rooting for you both, and if you ever need me FOR ANYTHING, call me. I mean it.
I put my phone down. She’s a good friend, but what exactly could she do to help me? It’s not like she could change laws to get me the hell out of here.
A knock sounds, and I automatically call out for the person to come in. It’s in the brief moment between the door opening and Nathan making his appearance that nerves set in.
It wasn’t always like this between us. Since coming here, he’s been my best friend. Now, though, I suppress a whole heap of emotions as he walks in with his bright white Greystone Academy shirt untucked, wrinkles along the hem ruining the clean-cut image. The purple-piped sleeves of the button-down are rolled up to his elbows, showing off a chiseled set of forearms.
Chiseled set of forearms? What in the hell?
I shake my head. That’s the last thing I need to be thinking about. I smile as he closes the door behind him. Dark circles under his eyes greet me, and my lips thin while I take in the rest of him. The shadowed marks match the scruff on his face. His styled, black hair curls up in the front, looking like he just got out of a photo shoot for the cover of Dark & Handsome Magazine. His hair is a tad too long at the moment, but it gives him a bad boy look that’s just short of appearing disheveled.
“What’s that face for?” he asks in greeting, eyes narrowing on me.
I swear we can read each other like textbooks. “Nothing.”
His gaze darts toward the phone next to me. “Text or social?”
I roll my eyes. I can’t keep anything from him. “Kinsey,” I reluctantly explain.
He plops down on the foot of my bed, making himself comfortable before twisting his head to the side, regarding me. He’s no doubt remembering the period of grief I went through when she left, which doesn’t match with the ire I’m clinging to now. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Just sending me happy texts.” I bring up the picture of her greenhouse and turn the screen toward him so he can see. “Hate her,” I grumble.
He shakes his head as I pull the phone back. “Please.” He pushes my leg in jest. “You don’t hate her.”
Instead of barely noticing his touch, I actually stare at the heat trail he left behind. “I kind of hate her a little,” I tell him, frowning at the spot on my leg and wondering what it means. Have I been so lonely that I just need someone to pay attention to me?
“Yeah, I kind of do, too,” he deadpans.
I reach out and kick him playfully. “Hey.”
He smiles back at me. “See. Knew you didn’t hate her.”
“Don’t push me, though. I might later.”
He chuckles, the sound throaty and cascading over me like a warm blanket.
Nathan and I knew each other when we were at Daybreak, but not like we do now. We bonded over being rejected, as some of us do while we’re here, but our relationship is deeper. We were rejected by a couple. I can’t even count the number of nights we’ve sat up and talked through their reasonings, wondering if they’re still seeing each other—and if they are, if there’s anything we should do about it. Plus, since he’s from my pack, there’s another tie that can’t be ignored. Among other attributes, we’re both sporting the same tattoo-like brand in the center of our chests: A sun peeking out over the horizon.
If Nathan and I ever make it through this, I picture us back at Daybreak, living next door to each other and constantly spying on our mates to make sure they’re not fucking.
At least, that’s the pretty image we’ve painted for ourselves. It’s ‘best-case scenario’ for us.
“She asked about you,” I tell him.
A wistful smile plays over his lips while he absentmindedly plucks at my sheets. “Tell her I’m not dead yet.”